The Spare
by ShyUnicorn
Summary: A baby boy of dubious parentage arrives at Malfoy Manor throwing Lucius and Narcissa's lives into chaos.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Spare  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Drama  
**Main Character(s):** Lucius Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Lucius/Narcissa, Lucius/OFC  
**Summary:** Narcissa Malfoy has always ignored her husband's wandering gaze in the security of the knowledge that he loves her implicitly and would never shame the family name. All of that is set to change when a baby boy of dubious parentage arrives at Malfoy Manor.  
**Author's Note (A/N):**Sorry if you guys got excited about the recent update. I've just been fiddling around with names to make this story canon compliant. Pottermore and other JKR sources have given some of these characters 'proper' names.

**Chapter One**

"How could you do this to me, Lucius?" Narcissa Malfoy asked in a deadly whisper.

She had her back to her husband as she stared sightlessly out of the large gabled window of Lucius' private study, which looked out onto immaculately kept green lawns that were achingly bright in May sunshine. Narcissa was tall and strikingly thin, shrouded in a floor length royal blue dress. Lucius let the silence lengthen between them, all the while watching the light drip through her long golden hair and corkscrew through her curls. Narcissa had taken a fistful of the sun-warmed, purple velvet curtains and looked as if she would like nothing better than to tear it down and flood the shadowy study with dazzling light. Do it, his cold grey eyes dared her, he'd just love an opportunity to really let rip.

The room was oddly still and even on an afternoon this bright there was a fire crackling in the grate. The walls were the colour of blackberries, which turned the large, rectangular mirror above the vast fire surround into a sheet of onyx, the large amount of knickknacks and ornate silver photograph frames that littered the mantelpiece doubled darkly in its reflection. The walls were hung with a series of gigantic paintings in gilt frames, all depicting a dark, tangled forest under starlight. The chink of white light from the window bisected a large, oriental rug which covered the dark floorboards, and hit upon the corner of a magnificent bookshelf crammed with volumes bound in purplish leather, which stood behind an enormous desk that put all of the other furniture to shame.

Lucius Malfoy's attention switched from his wife to a small boy of about two years old, who lay motionless on the shadowy surface of his immense tulipwood desk. Surrounded by stacks of parchment, quills, ink bottles, various knives and instruments that masqueraded as stationary the child looked sublimely out of place. He was asleep on his front, arms and legs balled up like a hedgehog, his eyelids flickered occasionally, but he slept on. Lucius was fascinated by the little boy's swirls of caramel hair, his long fine eyelashes, his tiny pinched nose and how he could so closely resemble two people at the same time.

"Of all the witches you could have chosen why her?" Narcissa asked the silence as bitter tears brimmed in her feline blue eyes. "I hated her. You know I did."

"I assumed the betrayal would hurt all the more if you actually liked them," Lucius said tartly, "I'll make a note that witches you have to look in the face aren't off limits after all."

He glanced at Narcissa in time to see an angry pink blush colour her chest and throat and felt no remorse for her. Lucius turned his cold grey eyes back to visually dissecting the little boy on his desk. His face was expressionless in sleep. To Lucius all small children looked alike with their soft boned faces and doughy cheeks – except his own son, Draco. Even as a baby he'd borne the unmistakable Malfoy features with a tracing paper thin overlay of his mother's good looks. This boy had clearly been fashioned using the same template.

"It would make things simpler," Narcissa continued, wiping the silent stream of tears from her cheeks with the flat of her hands. "If she was beautiful or charming or young I could understand that, but _her_."

Narcissa sniffed and shook her head as if trying to shake off the disgust that slicked her mind like slime.

Lucius felt a hot surge of complicated emotions when he thought of his old mistress. Narcissa had spoken honestly, Tilda Bloxham-Whitehorn did not possess a single virtue as far as he could tell. She'd been thin and thorny, twenty years his senior and sharp tongued towards even the people she liked – but oh! The things she'd taught him about the Dark Arts and the devilish things she'd done to him! He flushed at the memories of their mischief. However his mind quickly hardened against her. She'd tried to ruin him countless times and this scheme of hers was the closest she'd come by far.

"Am I cursed?" Narcissa asked, somewhat melodramatically. "She's taunting me from beyond the grave! You have to write to his Whitehorn grandparents and make them take him."

"They're not his grandparents and they've made it plain they won't." Lucius said shortly, wearily covering his eyes with his hand. He had been through this with Narcissa at least a dozen times before.

"They're furious about this entire situation. Devlin has been in the ground less than three months. The last thing they were expecting was Tilda to go and join him and end up parents again at 120!" he said through gritted teeth. "They won't raise my bastard son and leave us to carry on being deified by the society columns!"

"Then do something to make them take him. We can't have him," Narcissa said in a flippantly light voice, while anxiously chewing one of her fingernails. "It's completely unreasonable."

"What's completely unreasonable," Lucius said with deliberate sharpness, "is sending this Pureblood boy to the Whitehorns! They'd turn him out on the street or have him adopted and raised by Half-Bloods or _Muggles_."

Lucius looked sour as if the word had polluted his mouth.

He bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. His mind whirred like a weathervane in a storm, pointing in several different directions a second. He took a deep breath and thought through his options – which were few - and all involved bribery or curses.

He hated Tilda, he hated her fiercely and it was driving him to distraction. He wanted to kill something, to feel the delicate crack of a neck or hear the final breath of a Muggle. The anaesthetic infusion of power and control that followed would give him some clarity. Lucius moved his head slowly from side to side loosening the taut muscles. Of course murdering Muggles was not a realistic solution to his problems or a kind of therapy that he had the luxury to indulge in.

The little boy on the desk twitched in his sleep. Lucius' position didn't shift but he immediately looked to the child, hardly daring to breathe. The child had been given a potion to put him into an enchanted sleep but Lucius wasn't convinced it was going to last much longer. The toddlers eyelids twitched and his fists clenched and unclenched. What did children dream of, Lucius wondered. What did this child dream of?

"If you're worried about the social repercussions, no one would have to know the intimate details," Lucius drawled. "All of that can be kept private."

"All anyone has to do is take a look at that boy to _see_ the intimate details!" Narcissa shrieked, whirling round to point accusingly at the little boy curled up on Lucius' desk.

"You just don't know when to stop, do you? You have never shown one ounce of restraint!" she cried, and began counting his misdemeanours on her fingers. "First there was the Death Eater trial that nearly landed us in Azkaban. Then there were those salacious headlines about you and _that girl,_ which was utterly humiliating for me - and now this. I could die of shame!"

Lucius opened his mouth to speak furious words defending his dignity but the door of his study burst open.

The little boy ran across the room so quickly that he was merely a blur of startling white blond hair.

Narcissa turned abruptly, brushing her tears away and glaring into the dazzling blue sky of the world beyond the window as she wrestled to compose herself. Even though Lucius was still reeling from her accusations he felt a surge of respect towards her for protecting Draco from their quarrel. He shut his mouth and, with nostrils flaring in barely suppressed rage, he turned to his son.

"Daddy! Daddy! Guess what was in the garden?" the boy shouted excitedly dropping his broom and the stuffed hippogriff teddy-bear noisily on the floor in his haste to climb onto his father's lap. Lucius braced himself as small hands pulled at his robes and sharp little limbs dug uncomfortably into him.

"Daddy, there was a _kneazle_ - a _wild kneazle_!" The boy exploded, his grey eyes wide with excitement - wide enough to catch even the smallest morsel of approval his father might show. "It was black and grey and white with a sticky-up tail."

Lucius saw that Draco was alarmingly dirty - a large grass stain on his white tunic, a smudge of dirt on his face and his hands were covered in mud and little pieces of a purple water plant. He'd now lost count of the times he had told his son to stay out of the fountain.

"How clever of you to have found a kneazle, Draco," Narcissa praised, her voice calm and cool.

She sniffed one final time and patted her swollen eyelids with her fingertips. She had manage to compress all of her emotions to a glint of something needle sharp, which pricked Lucius when their eyes met.

"Where did you find it?" she continued, devoting herself completely to her only son.

"In the roses. I tried to stroke it but it ran away," Draco mumbled sulkily without looking up at his mother.

He would have continued but he noticed the sleeping toddler on the desk and fell silent in amazement. His eyes narrowed and he began preparing for a closer inspection. Draco gripped the desk top and pulled himself into a kneeling position to peer curiously at the sleeping boy amid the papers and twisted candles. Lucius growled in discomfort and shifted his legs to take the weight of his five-year-old son.

"What's that?" Draco asked in a hushed voice, bending forwards and reaching out to poke the sleeper.

Lucius caught his son's arm and averted a direct hit. They wrestled a moment as Draco resisted restraint before realising he was no match for his father. The white haired boy turned and looked incredulously over his shoulder for an answer. He was suspicious of the little impostor and sensed competition.

"This," Lucius said smoothly, leaning in conspiratorially to Draco, "is Leopold Lascelles and he's your new playmate."

From the window Narcissa made a noise of indignation and tossed her head. She folded her arms and turned away to fix her eyes on the sky beyond the window. Draco looked uncertainly between his mother and his father, a puzzled expression on his pudgy face.

"Is he always this boring?" Draco asked, cocking his head and regarding Leopold's sleeping stature.

A smile thinned Lucius' mouth. Even as a boy of four Draco looked exactly like him. It was amusing to see his son wearing an expression that Lucius had so often worn himself. In such moments seeing himself in Draco was like light illuminating the strand of a spider's web. They had the same sleepy grey eyes, the same pointed nose and chin and the same arrogant arching eyebrows – the eyebrows that even in sleep Leopold Whitehorn wore so well.

"You'll like him," Lucius assured Draco. "He doesn't have to go home at the end of the day like Vincent and Theodore. He's going to live here with us so you can play with him all the time. He'll be like your little brother."

"He will not!" Narcissa said sharply, her eyes flashing dangerously.

Draco, startled by his mother's outburst, considered Leopold with a frown.

"Will he play Trolls and Troll Catcher with me?" he inquired seriously, looking solemnly between his mother and father. "And let me sit on him and do what I say?"

Both Lucius and Narcissa's mouths softened into almost smiles. This was not the standard definition of brother that either parent had hoped to instil in their son, but at four years old these were clearly pressing matters.

"I should imagine so, as he is younger than you," Lucius informed Draco, who was looking earnestly up at him. "You're to be nice to him. I shall be very angry if you're not."

"Yes, Daddy," Draco lisped obediently, clearly trying to remember these instructions.

"Now you must be a good boy and let your mother put you into some nice clean clothes," Lucius said lifting Draco from his lap, "and let Daddy do some work."

A sense of finality hung in the air.

Draco collected his disregarded toys together and Lucius savoured the feeling of full circulation returning to his legs.

"Come on Draco," Narcissa said, holding out her hand. Draco bounded over to her and allowed her to lead him across the room. "Because you were such a clever little explorer in the garden we'll get Dobby to make us some tea and you, _you_, can have some chocolate biscuits with yours."

Narcissa shot Lucius a loathsome look. "Write to the Whitehorns," she demanded before closing the door.

"What about _Lee-lol-poll_? Is he coming too?" Draco asked curiously from the corridor.

"Who? Oh, you mean _Leopold_? No. He's not important, darling," Narcissa replied coldly.

**A/N:** Coming in the next chapter: Draco's birthday party and more sinister secrets!


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** The Spare  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**T  
**Genre:** Drama  
**Main Character(s):** Lucius Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Lucius/Narcissa, Lucius/OFC  
**Summary:** Narcissa Malfoy has always ignored her husband's wandering gaze in the security of the knowledge that he loves her implicitly and would never shame the family name. All of that is set to change when a baby boy of dubious parentage arrives at Malfoy Manor.  
**A/N**: More intrigue and mystery lies ahead.

**Chapter Two**

The sky was a perfect, cloudless expanse of the purest crystalline blue, as soothing as a drink of ice cold water. Trees blossomed out in the serene green fields like blots of deep vermillion ink on thick, old parchment. Lucius Malfoy retreated into the shade of the impressive manor house. He could still feel the heat of the day clinging to his skin but the cool, damp scent rising from the stones and the lush plants cooled him down considerably.

Every year Draco's birthday was marked with an extravagant party. This year was no different. Banners and bunting were dripping from the trees and the garden furniture had been repainted and arranged on the patio for the adult guests. The long, emerald lawn was thronged with small children in dazzling white tunic tops which were steadily getting grass stained and muddied on top of being messily painted. For some peculiar reason Lucius had agreed to let Draco have his dearest wish: a tunic painting party. He had not anticipated that everything would be coloured and stained garish shades of pink and orange and blue, including himself. This was, however, a small price to pay for his son's happiness.

The children had eaten their fill of sugary, brightly coloured cakes and were now playing rowdily together with redoubled energy. They buzzed and bumbled around the garden like bees, shouting and laughing in one ear splitting cacophony of enthusiasm. The bright white peacocks that Lucius bred in his spare time were startled to death by the maelstrom. They had retreated to the bottom of the garden where they were milling around meowing to one another in distaste.

"It's all taken care of," Nott said quietly, sidling up to Lucius, who had a silent, solemn looking toddler on his hip.

Beneath an enormous wicker sunhat Leopold, whose quick grey eyes had been searching the scene before him, looked to the unfamiliar wizard.

Lucius looked with interest at the long, crooked features of his friend as he took the glass of champagne Nott had offered him.

Nott was more than middle aged - even for a wizard - but in good condition for an antique. In Lucius' mind Nott had no internal organs, no veins nor heart. He was a chest, an ottoman, a wardrobe, a trunk with enumerable drawers filled with precious stone secrets and rotted lace morals. Nott had once been a tall, straight backed man with the furious energy of a tornado and hair as black as oil. He was now a stooping willow of a wizard in country gentlewizard's robes with iron grey streaks in his beard. He worked in Wizard Law and played cards like the Devil. An invincible combination, Lucius thought, especially when he considered that Nott was not a bad dueller either.

"Are you certain?" Lucius asked tensely, glancing at Narcissa, who was surrounded by a flock of admirers.

She was laughing at a joke Ernest Avery, the buffoon, had just told her. She was doubled over and holding her sides. Her cheeks blazed pink as she struggled for breath. He framed the moment in his memories and clicked the shutter on her.

"Positive," Nott assured him. As if to prove it he added, "I dealt with it personally."

"Good."

Lucius sipped his drink in a self congratulatory way before looking down at the boy in his arms. Leopold looked steadily back at him, the mind behind the eyes clearly comprehending more than was normal. He looked away once more, his eyes feasting on the garden in full bloom.

"Narcissa pulled some strings with the press," Lucius slipped in conversationally. "Cressida Connolly cobbled together a good sob story to keep the mob sweet. Has anyone at the Ministry been poking around?"

"You're lucky the whole case came through Ambrosius Selwyn," Nott said. Both Nott and Lucius cast their eyes in the direction of a handsome wizard with chestnut brown hair who was engaged in conversation with Virgil Parkinson.

"I didn't ever think I'd say that, but there you have it. We've managed to keep it between the two of us. Can you imagine if Charlus Abbott had been in charge?" Nott said, his mouth curving into a scythe-like smile.

"Don't think for one second that I enjoy being indebted to the Selwyns for anything," Lucius warned sharply. "Adolphus Selwyn is a monster in the Wizengamot courts, one has to respect such fire; and he has a most interesting collection of bewitched antique torture equipment - dates back to the fifteenth century, you know? He has good taste - but I haven't forgiven him," he muttered sorely.

Immediately the merry smile and laughing doe eyes of a blonde witch with the most beautiful ivory skin and the most sumptuous body appeared in his mind's eye. Lucius' mouth thinned. The sting she had left in him had not lost any of its poison. Nott did not miss this. Neither did he try to conceal the leering smile that caressed his lips.

"There, there," Nott said, oozing with sarcasm as he patted Lucius' shoulder. Lucius scowled. "Tilda spun us a pretty little mess, you'll be pleased to know."

Nott's black eyes twitched as he traced Leopold's snub profile.

"Why doesn't that surprise me," Lucius said sardonically, unable to stop himself. He hitched Leopold up in his arms and gave his friend a penetrating look. "Do tell."

"It's an interesting pickle," Nott said, licking his lips and glancing around surreptitiously.

He eyed six-year-old Pansy Parkinson as if she were a potential spy. When he was happy that the girl was out of earshot and they wouldn't be interrupted he explained himself.

"You're listed as the father on the boy's birth certificate," Nott said dropping his voice and leaning closer, "but the whole thing's a farce. She'd put it through Hubbard, just before he died -"

" - how convenient," Lucius murmured, exchanging dark looks with Nott.

"Indeed," Nott said lowly, with the quirk of an eyebrow. "Very convenient."

There was no doubt in Lucius' mind that Tilda would have poisoned or cursed Hubbard to suit her ends. It seemed incredibly likely when he considered she'd probably jinxed the broom that killed her husband, Nimbus tycoon, Devlin Whitehorn.

"There was no counter signatory," Nott pressed on. "His Birth Certificate didn't mean a thing in the eyes of any law. I made out a new one, pretending the old one had been lost. Ambrosius Selwyn and I have both signed it. We don't usually deal in that area of law but we thought it was safer than using Memory Charms on one of the office girls. It's not a name you'd forget in a hurry."

"I know," Lucius grumbled. "Leopold Orpheus Ivor Bloxham-Whitehorn. It's so pretentious it almost has you questioning his blood purity."

Nott gave him a pitying look.

"That's another thing," Nott intoned with great emphasis on every word. "For some gloriously bizarre reason he's listed as Whitehorn on the pedigree scroll - even though his birth certificate clearly states that you're his father. His inheritance was another fiasco."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Lucius chipped in. He took a sip of his champagne to ready himself for Nott's next tale of Tilda's wickedness.

"Leopold's the sole heir to the Bloxham vault and yet his file was listed under Whitehorn. What a pretty penny he's been given in inheritance!" Nott's black eyes glittered greedily. "That ought to soften Narcissa a little. He won't be a financial burden to you. The Whitehorns have also granted him a bequest. Of course it's peanuts to what the daughter's been left with, but generous of Devlin, when you consider that it's likely neither of the children are his."

"Really?" Lucius said mildly. "I never met the daughter. I don't think I knew she existed until Devlin's funeral."

"There were some odd rumours about that girl," Nott leered. His tongue darted out of his mouth to wet his thin, dry lips before he went on. "When you consider Tilda's lineage, who she learnt her magic from and the position she used to occupy before your sister-in-law came to prominence…"

Nott, who was not one to gossip, shrugged his shoulders in reply to Lucius' doubtful expression.

"He wouldn't," Lucius said dismissively, but the instant he'd said the words he began to reconsider. "It wasn't something He was ever interested in."

"Perhaps not," Nott agreed. "But I knew Him when He was young and I think there's a strong chord of their fathers in both those children."

Lucius instinctively held Leopold a little closer. He was quite heavy, but easy to hold because he didn't wiggle and struggle like other children. He was a little owl - silent and watchful, soaking in everything with his quick grey eyes.

"Leopold's case would have been dragged through every office in the Law Department if it hadn't landed on Selwyn's desk," Nott intoned.

"Don't tell me things like that," said Lucius, frowning and shaking his head. "It'll already cost me a fortune to keep him quiet. Don't make me feel as if he actually deserves paying."

Nott coughed out a dusty laugh, the contents of his drawers rattling. If Lucius could boast about one thing it was that he was a generous man. He had no problem giving out his gold where it got good returns. Privacy in delicate matters was worth every galleon. He couldn't help feeling a little smug that he had managed to avoid a tabloid assault and had thwarted Tilda's plot to discredit him.

Nott had turned his head and was looking out to where his scrawny son, Theodore, was being trussed by a gargantuan six year old with a bowl cut. Vincent Crabbe was throwing Theodore around by his tunic so that he looked like a dragonfly caught by its wing. Lucius scanned the garden for his own progeny. Draco, his white hair gleaming in the sunlight, was leading a band of white tunic-ed pirates. They were wading through the bushes in an attempt to creep up and loot the old apple tree. Draco was frowning and gesticulating, lining his troops up for battle. Lucius was pierced through with pride.

The two Selwyn boys, Castor and Peregrine were playing ball with their father, Adolphus. Their mother was standing close by, occasionally using a Banishing Charm to knock the ball to one of the boys in order to keep the game moving. Dora Yaxley looked like a wonderfully depraved Snow White. Part banshee, part demon Narcissa had once called her. Lucius had never heard a truer description of Adolphus' wife. They were an understatedly good match for one another.

"He's an odd child," Lucius confided to Nott.

"In what way?" Nott's black eyes slid sideways, shiftily surveying Leopold.

"He can't talk," Lucius began, but corrected himself immediately. "He's just turned two-years-old and he doesn't talk. I think perhaps he can, but don't you think that's odd? I'm sure he'll learn fast enough now. Draco's a good teacher. He's been narrating every aspect of our lives since the beginning."

"Perhaps Leopold is retarded," Nott suggested, looking as if the prospect was savagely amusing.

"My son is not retarded!" Lucius said hotly. "Does this boy look affected?"

As if on cue Leopold turned his head and gave Nott a hard, knowledgeable look. Then, with amusing arrogance, the toddler looked away and became interested in the pattern of the paving. Lucius absently readjusted Leopold's sun hat.

"The disturbing truth is I don't think anyone had ever spoken to him, or thought to teach him how to talk," Lucius continued quietly. "What's more, he dotes on the House-Elf as if it were a pet."

"You think Leopold has hitherto been raised by a House-Elf?" Nott asked incredulously with a look of utter disgust on his face.

"Yes," Lucius agreed sourly.

It was a revolting idea; his beautiful, Pureblood son being brought up by a filthy, enslaved Elf. Even though Leopold was his illegitimate son, Lucius believed Leopold still deserved an upbringing befitting his blood status.

"How repulsive," Nott grimaced.

"Yes," Lucius agreed. "That's not the oddest thing about him. The oddest thing of all," Lucius looked around to make sure that no one was within earshot and continued in a lower voice, "is he often has a type of fit."

"Seizures?" Nott asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Not exactly," Lucius said shifting uncomfortably. "He has a sort of tantrum, one he can't seem to control. He thrashes around, screaming and crying and covers his eyes…it's as if he's seeing something. Something terrifying – and real."

"How long does the screaming last? How does he behave afterwards?" Nott asked, glancing at the placid little boy who had pressed his head sleepily against Lucius' chest.

"It begins suddenly and can last for an hour, until he's completely wild and carries on until he's exhausted himself. It gave us quite a fright," Lucius said tensely. "As you can see, normally he's remarkably well behaved. Aren't you, Leo?"

Leopold turned himself shyly into the protection of Lucius' body, quite aware they were talking about him.

"How often has this happened?"

"The first week he was with us it happened everyday, but now it happens less often. It's quite an inconvenience, I must say," Lucius groused. "Narcissa hates it, and she's so busy with this committee and that committee that I find myself lumbered with him."

Nott pondered this information for a long moment, his dark eyes sweeping the peaceful blue sky. "You do know Tilda was found dead in rather- ah- unusual circumstances, don't you?" he reminded.

"I heard that it was… ugly, yes," Lucius said picking his words carefully, "and that the daughter found her."

"That's right," Nott said thoughtfully, playing with his beard. "You might find it useful to talk to the daughter, if you think Leopold's condition is related. Otherwise, I'd suggest taking him to Rosamund McTavish rather than waiting for Severus. She works for St. Mungo's. Maybe see what she has to say?"

Lucius did not voice his misgivings about taking Leopold to Healers, but the thought of seeing Tilda's daughter had a wicked appeal. The two men lapsed into a long, thoughtful silence.

"The amount of clerks she must have befuddled," Nott said almost admiringly, turning Lucius' thoughts back to Tilda. "I've cleaned up the trail of parchment. I think she thought she was covering her tracks by creating such a twisting path."

"Don't be so foolish," Lucius said haughtily. "You knew her. She was probably trying to make sure as many people as possible would find out the truth. She was livid when I left her. Both times, in fact," Lucius mused.

Nott looked inclined to disagree.

"She was a very tempestuous person," he said with a significant look, "I'll grant you that."

Lucius scoffed. He would never have expected such an understatement from someone like Nott. Tilda was a raging, whirling storm of a woman. She was as hot and deadly as dragon fire. He would have said this about her in an instant – and he had been her lover.

"It seems she went to extreme lengths to conceal the truth," Nott continued in his passionless voice. "She could have done all manner of things to make your life uncomfortable."

"Oh, she did," Lucius assured Nott. "Why put my name on his Birth Certificate to begin with?" Lucius asked downing the rest of his champagne. "She could have saved us all a lot of trouble by not doing that."

He looked down at Leopold in his arms and felt a strangely possessive and fatherly rush of affection towards the child. There was no doubting that Leopold had caused a lot of trouble. Narcissa was only just beginning to be civil to him two weeks later. Yet, as he looked down at Leopold's fine baby hair and plump face he saw a little of himself in the boy's face and knew he could not now bear to be parted from his son.

"She couldn't lie," Nott said simply with a shrug of his shoulders.

Lucius scoffed as he moved his half numb arm to get a more secure hold on Leopold. "I'm sure that's a great inconvenience to many a wizard," he said indignantly.

"I'm sure it is," Nott smirked. "It was introduced with the intention of stopping parents of Half-Blood children lying and claiming a higher blood status than they deserved. It's funny how these laws occasionally hurt the ones they were meant to protect."

"What are you two conspiring about?" Narcissa inquired, her blue eyes flashing suspiciously from beneath the brim of her hat as she sauntered towards them.

She was like a blade of grass, so wonderfully tall, with an elongated, boyish figure and impossibly long, lean legs. Lucius missed the days when she'd been softer, he'd preferred her then. He understood why she looked the way she did, he didn't miss the envious looks other witches threw at her or how whatever fashion was popular Narcissa wore it well. Social status was of the utmost importance to both of them, and they were committed to remaining at the top of the hierarchy.

"Come and have some cake and stop skulking!" she chided.

Her blue eyes slipped to Leopold's face and for a second she pouted, forgetting that she was trying to be anything but maternal towards him.

"Sleepy boy," she said gently, coming across misty eyed as all witches seemed to when confronted with a baby. She'd half reached out to touch Leopold's cheek before she saw the ghost of Tilda Whitehorn in the soft lines of his face.

"You should take him up to bed," she said coolly, a fresh wave of hurt washing over her face.

She looked a little startled when her eyes met Lucius' as if she still couldn't quite believe what he'd done. He knew she'd always wanted more children than Draco, but miscarriage after miscarriage had preceded and followed Draco's birth. It had taken its toll on them both, hoping and dreaming, only to have each pregnancy end in anguish and blood.

"Nott was just telling me how he's managed to smooth everything out," Lucius told her with deliberate politeness.

"Good," Narcissa said, looking relieved that something was going right. "Thank you for everything, Nott. It really is reassuring to know that some wizards can do their jobs with dignity."

Nott chuckled at the cleverly concealed barb in her words and bowed his head courteously.

"My pleasure," he told her in a reedy voice. "I was telling your husband that your Gringotts vault is about to be considerably fuller in the coming weeks."

"Why is that?" she asked, appraising Lucius from head to foot. "What's he been up to this time?"

"You have this little chap to thank," Nott said, nodding to Leopold. "He's worth 500,000 galleons, without the cost of goods and chattels left to him. I dare say under the near alchemic care of yourself and Lucius he'll have more than earned his keep soon enough."

"Surely," Narcissa laughed, barely able to hide her delight, "we're not entitled to his inheritance."

"Due to the circumstances: your willingness to take him and so forth you'll find Lucius can easily gain control of Leopold's assets. Personally I'd sell all the inherited goods and land and reinvest elsewhere."

He smiled wickedly. "Here, for instance," he added, motioning to the garden around them.

Narcissa laughed, and when she looked at Lucius he saw she'd warmed considerably towards him. Lucius could also see she was already envisioning Tilda's most precious belongings scattered to the wind at auction. How triumphant Narcissa would feel walking around in clothes that Bloxham heirlooms had paid for!

Lucius' lip curled in a proud smile. Narcissa, who loved history and valued tradition, tearing apart the Bloxham collection was wickedly victorious as well as suitably ironic.

"Come," she said to Lucius, her blue eyes twinkling with malice. "Let me get you a fresh glass of champagne."

She took the empty glass from his hand and placed it on the wall for the House-Elf to collect. Then, quite naturally, she slipped her hand in his and led him towards their guests and friends.

All was not quite forgiven. Lucius noticed the smile slipped from her lips when she looked at Leopold, who had now dozed off to sleep. Her eyes sought Draco, who she loved superfluously, and her smile returned.

**A/N:** Please review, I love hearing what you guys think at the end of a chapter. Coming up… legilimency, murder and gore. Good times ahead, folks!


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** The Spare  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Drama  
**Main Character(s):** Lucius Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Lucius/Narcissa, Lucius/OFC  
**Summary:** Narcissa Malfoy has always ignored her husband's wandering gaze in the security of the knowledge that he loves her implicitly and would never shame the family name. All of that is set to change when a baby boy of dubious parentage arrives at Malfoy Manor.**  
A/N**: In which we journey to the wild Yorkshire landscapes and meet a very peculiar adolescent girl with chilling tales to tell.

**Chapter Three**

Lucius Malfoy had been unable to stop thinking about Nott's suggestion of learning more about the manner of Tilda's death. On the whole Leopold was a quiet, watchful boy who was slowly starting to settle into life at Malfoy Manor. Unable to brush aside his curiosity Lucius sent an owl to the elderly Whitehorns. He asked to speak to Malandra, Tilda's daughter, who had been left in their care. The written reply came quickly and was prickly reading. However, between thinly veiled insults Lucius was pleased to read that they would allow him one interview with their precious granddaughter.

The Whitehorns lived in a large stone house on the outskirts of the mostly magical Yorkshire village, Upper Flagley. The house was set back from a twisting little lane that straddled and girdled the mournful hillside. It was camouflaged by hedgerows and a wild tangle of old trees that rattled and rustled in the blustery wind.

As Lucius walked up the garden path all he could see was the square house flanked by thick black storm clouds. He had the impression that the house was at the very end of the world. Indeed, at the boundaries of the garden the hillside descended steeply at an almost vertical angle.

As he approached the front door it swung inwards, as if expecting him. In his letter Ernald Whitehorn had made it plain that he did not wish to see Lucius unless his mangled corpse was hanging from the yew tree in their back garden – a wish that Lucius was not going to grant them any time soon.

An incredibly old, fragile looking witch with short, silver hair met him at the door. Delphia Whitehorn looked incredibly clean and prim in her cream muslin gown and deep green woollen cape. Her face was gaunt and the hand that clutched a glossy chestnut walking stick was as thin as a twig.

"I wasn't sure if you was a-comin' or not," she said in a breathy, shrill voice as she allowed Lucius to step inside. "We 'oped you'd stay away."

Lucius strode into the hallway of the house which had the feel of a much smaller house than the vista suggested. Behind Delphia a door was ajar and Lucius saw a patch of provincial looking room. A dusty kneazle was asleep on a rug by the fire and the WWN was playing in the background. Someone who was out of sight, no doubt Ernald Lascelles, coughed violently.

"Malandra's been all a-quiver this mornin'," Delphia told Lucius, as she strained like a tortoise to open the door to Lucius' right. "It ent right to get a girl such as she all worked up an' excited."

Lucius found himself shown into a silent, square room that looked as if it had been decorated a century ago. The walls were pale but the furniture was made of glossy, black ebony. The whole house smelt of beeswax and silver polish as well as a dusty, musty old age scent. The finest china tea set had been arranged on a low table between the two sofas. Above the mantelpiece and on the walls were paintings of pastoral landscapes and embroidery samplers of kneazles. In the corner of the room was a stuffed owl watching them through a bell jar.

"You're not to upset her," Delphia warned, turning to Lucius, still managing to look fierce despite her age clouded eyes. "And you ent to talk to 'er longer thun un hour, understand?"

"If you insist," he sneered, and thrust his travelling cloak into her hand. "Be assured: I take no pleasure in being here."

The elderly witch gave him a sideways look of mutual dislike and shuffled towards the door. As she did so there were sounds of life from upstairs. Through the floorboards Lucius could hear movement and he felt very clearly the oppressive nature of living in such close contact with others. Often he and Narcissa would walk around the manor all day long and not hear one another. Lucius had to feel free at all times, if he became hemmed in he was gripped by a rebellious wildness that had on occasion shocked him.

"Malandra!" Delphia brayed. "Malandra, come 'ere m'love."

There was more banging, a door this time, and footsteps. Lucius sat down on one of the sofas and waited for Malandra Whitehorn to become more than a clanking ghoul. He had expected wild behaviour from Tilda's daughter, destructive was clearly inherent. There was a thundering on the stairs as the girl hastened to him.

"I'll leave you," Delphia said from the doorway. "Be a good girl," the elderly witch said to Malandra, who was still hiding from his view.

Malandra slouched rakishly in the doorway. For a girl who had been anticipating his arrival she looked remarkably irreverent. She had come barefoot wearing a sort of fancy dress costume. She was a striking looking girl; very tall for twelve years old, the fact that she was wearing a tutu only enhanced this impression. She was very pale, with two long braids of gleaming dark hair, which trailed over her shoulders and down her torso like twin serpents.

"Good morning, Miss Whitehorn," said Lucius, standing up and bowing curtly to her.

The girl hesitated, toying complacently with one of her braids, her dark eyes gleaming as she stared at him. She curtsied reluctantly and marched towards the unoccupied sofa where she flung herself down dramatically.

Lucius cautiously went to the parlour door and shut it firmly. Wishing to take no chances of being spied upon he drew out his wand and cast both an Unperturbable Charm and a Silencing Charm which rendered the room soundproof. When he was satisfied with his spellcraft he walked back to the sofa and settled himself, straight-backed and imposing.

"I was wondering when I was going to get to meet you, Mr Malfoy," Malandra began at once in a smoky voice much too grown up for her. "I've heard all about you… well, I heard you a lot."

She folded her arms across her chest and looked very pleased with herself.

"Is that so?" he asked, smirking slightly. Malandra instantly surpassed all of his expectations. She looked at him steadily and nodded.

"At first I didn't understand it," she told him, inspecting her fingernails. "I knew you were hurting each other and at the same time you were enjoying it. Of course, I was seven then, but I quickly came to understand it all very well."

She looked up and fixed him with her magnificent dark eyes. She cocked her head to the side as a slow, sly smile spread across her face.

"No one ever really treated me like a child," Malandra explained.

The fact that she didn't look upset or angry about this troubled Lucius. She looked rather proud. It showed just how immature she really was. He could think of very few things more tragic, nor dangerous, than a person without a childhood.

"Why're you here?" she asked, leaning forwards, the sly smile returning to her lips. "Have you come to make sure I'll keep my mouth shut about what I know?"

"And what is that?" he asked, rather amused by her infantile attempts at intimidating him. Lucius poured a cup of tea for himself and cup of tea for Malandra, though he fully intended to let her drink first in case the tea was poisoned.

The girl looked unsure how to respond. Should she tell him her evidence or should she keep it to herself? Lucius took the opportunity to ask how many sugar cubes she'd like in her tea.

"Five," came her greedy reply. "My grandparents don't let me eat sweets. They don't let me do a lot of things, actually. Mother said you were a Death Eater. I think you ought to let me do whatever I want or all the other things I know about you might tumble out to the wrong people."

Lucius put one lump of sugar in Malandra's cup and passed it to her. She didn't look pleased about him not doing as she'd told, but she didn't protest. Lucius knew that girls like her secretly enjoyed being defied.

"I came here to meet you," Lucius said silkily. "I'd a rather sick desire to see you in person and speak to you. I wanted to know if you were anything like your mother. Evidently you are."

Malandra slouched back and glowered at him as she sipped her tea.

"If you were going to attempt to blackmail me with the knowledge you possess you are sorely mistaken. Everyone, except perhaps your grandparents, knew your mother was a whore."

Malandra's mouth thinned into a petulant white line.

"I'm Leopold's father. Who's yours?" Lucius goaded. "I'd leave the blackmailing up to me if I were you, unless of course you want your grandparents to find out? Judging by the way they dealt with your mother they're not as respectable as they like people to think."

"Shut up," Malandra bellowed, speaking with such ringing authority even the silence seemed to be willing to obey her.

"Did they put you up to that?" Lucius asked calmly and took a sip of his tea. "I came here today to ask you to take me on a trip down memory lane. I want to see what you saw when you found your mother's body."

"No," Malandra snapped. "Uh-uh." She firmly shut her mouth and shook her head, squeezing her eyes tight shut in an uncomfortably familiar way.

"Why not?" he asked, leaning forwards and gripping her jaw with one hand, forcing her to look at him.

Lucius Malfoy did not like being told 'no' when he wanted something. Her face, so pale and sly, had become clammy looking and her dark eyes were fearful and feral like a wild animal caught in a trap.

"What did you see?"

Malandra shook her head defiantly, looking everywhere but into his blazing grey gaze. Lucius slipped his wand out from the pocket of his robes. She panicked and tried to jerk away but he held her firmly. Her breathing was quick and sharp and little beads of sweat appeared on her forehead.

"If you won't tell me," Lucius said in a chillingly even voice, "I have other methods of getting the memory out of you. You were right, I was a Death Eater. Just like your mother. I have plenty of ways to make you talk, little girl."

"I can't say," Malandra whimpered, before clamping her lips together and shaking her head. "Don't make me remember," she pleaded.

"_Legilimens!"_

The spell silently hit her. Her eyes seemed to grow bigger and darker and all of a sudden Lucius was no longer in the house of Ernald and Delphia Whitehorn, he was standing in a doorway.

Lucius instantly recognised Tilda's bedroom door. He arrived in Malandra's memory in time to see her blow the thick wooden door open with a spell from the tip of her wand. Her black hair was drawn back into a greasy ponytail and she looked half wild. Beside her was Leopold, dirty and apprehensive, in the same outfit he had worn the day he'd arrived at Malfoy Manor.

The door lurched forwards and ripped clean off its hinges. Instantly the terrible buzzing of a thousand flies and what must have been a horrific stench billowed out, knocking Malandra and Leopold back a few steps. Malandra put a hand to her mouth and looked queasy. She took a small step forward, and peered into the darkened room.

Leopold tottered into the darkness, wide eyed but uncomprehending, while Malandra follow cautiously behind. Even before he had fully entered the room Lucius sensed the horror of the scene. He knew the smell of death, of mouldering meat. Even though it didn't snag in his nostrils, his skin seemed to recall it and a cold sweat bloomed all over his body.

They stepped gingerly through the debris of rotting food on the floor of a private sitting room, stirring clouds of flies up into the air as they passed. In her last days Tilda had been living like an animal. Dirty plates covered with mould were on the floor, on the mantelpiece, on chairs and on the table. A door up ahead was ajar. With her wand still in her hand Malandra nudged the door cautiously. A startled doxy came rushing out. It dodged around Leopold, whose lamp-like eyes were flashing over everything.

It was a gruesome scene in the bedroom. More flies, more decomposing food, and worse: Tilda must have been very ill at the end. Lucius forced himself to keep his eyes averted from the bed in the centre of the room. A pile of what looked like fly-covered mulch lay, soaking into the rug on the floor. Lucius' stomach rolled over as he realised the shape greatly resembled that of a House-Elf.

On the table by the bed was a heap of blood soaked handkerchiefs. The trail of blood continued.

The bed was a hideous sight to behold.

Malandra was rooted in position with Leopold peering out from behind her legs. The crumpled, filthy sheets, stained with blood and other human vileness were spotted with flies and wriggling maggots. In the centre was a figure with a bloated, swollen head, the colour and texture of a rotten apple.

Leopold looked over the scene for a long moment. He stared at the bed, transfixed by the horror of its contents. In a flash he seemed to realise what he was looking at and let out a short sharp scream. He squeezed his eyes shut, and ran crying from the room as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Malandra remained, trying not to breathe. Lucius was glad that he had been spared the smell of the memory. The sick, repugnant air must have caught in Malandra's throat because her whole body convulsed as she retched.

She raced to the door, back through the rat droppings and the flies, past Leopold and out into the corridor of the grand, old house. Down the stairs, she bolted, and out of the dramatic front doors.

In the sunlight she was sick. On the green grass her pile of yellow vomit looked fresh and clean and sweet.

"What did you do!?" moaned Malandra.

She was slumped back on the sofa looking waxy and drawn. Her pale skin was sweaty and grey tinged and she was trembling violently.

It took Lucius a moment to realise they had burst from her memories and were now sat in the comfort of the present. His vision was clouded with the squalid, shameful conditions of the house in Malandra's memory. The withered shape of Tilda Whitehorn's decomposing remains seemed imprinted on his eyelids. He wondered if this was what Leopold remembered when he cried so hard that he lost control.

"Have some tea," Lucius commanded.

He sat back in his seat and passed Malandra's teacup into her quaking hands. Lucius, who was feeling a little disturbed, thoughtfully sipped his own tea. If Leopold's episodes were caused by this memory the solution was easy – cut it out with a sharp Memory Charm.

"You were right. It was them that did it," Malandra whispered, with a terrified look at the door. "They wanted revenge. I reckon they wanted it to be bad but I don't think they knew it would be like that…"

Lucius frowned, but Malandra looked as if she was going to explain herself further. She stole from her seat and with impressive light footed stealth moved to the bookshelf. He wondered if she'd perfected the art while listening to him and Tilda making love behind locked doors. The rake-like girl stood on her tiptoes and took a book down from the top shelf.

"Leopold's the lucky one," Malandra said jealously. "When Father died they accidentally found out about Leopold. They were hopping mad. Course, they'd hated Mother for years and were just looking for an excuse. I don't think Leopold would've lasted long if you hadn't taken him. They're shipping me off to Hogwarts in September."

"I would have thought you'd see that as a good thing," Lucius said, taking the book Malandra had brought to him.

Her eyes were glittering and her face was flushed pink with excitement. Lucius thought that her behaviour was a little indecent, but if he was honest, not unexpected.

Lucius read the worn words branded into the black leather cover: _Magicke Moste Evile_.

"It's in there," she said in a hushed voice, taking back the book. "I'm sure it was one of the advanced curses. I can't pronounce any of them but they all do gruesome things."

"I suppose this used to be bedtime reading for you," Lucius said sourly, looking at the girl's childish hand holding a book which detailed the blackest of Dark Arts. "Did you understand anything in that book?" he asked out of curiosity.

"Bits," Malandra admitted. "My tutors taught me a bit of what they wanted and a bit of what I wanted."

She heaved the gothic book back onto the top shelf and examined her hands as if the book had dirtied her skin. She rubbed them uneasily on her tutu as if trying to get them clean.

"They can't know that I know," she said feverishly, glancing to the door. "They'll kill me if they know. Promise you won't tell on me?"

For a second he saw her clearly, without her attitude, without her ridiculous costume and her odd, somewhat grown-up bearing. Once again he had the impression of a frightened animal, caged, with no way to escape.

"Leopold is my concern," Lucius said evasively, getting to his feet.

"What're you doing?" Malandra asked sharply.

"Our time is up," he said, peering down his long, distinguished nose at the glossy haired girl looking up at him. She looked openly disappointed.

Lucius wasn't sure he agreed with Nott's conspiracy theory regarding Malandra's paternity. As she sat looking up at him he thought she was much too plain looking to be Tilda's daughter either, but the fighting spirit was there. That was what made him say,

"When you come of age come and see me. We'll see how much of that book you understand then. Perhaps I'll teach you a thing or two."

"Wait," Malandra said hurriedly, getting to her feet and following Lucius to the door. "Will I be able to see Leopold? He is my brother."

Lucius paused before ending the charms on the door. He hadn't considered that Malandra would want anything to do with Leopold. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to have any further involvement in his life. Lucius thought of Narcissa and Draco and how they had already had to make sacrifices because of his mistakes.

"Write to me when you come of age," Lucius replied. "Who knows, perhaps I'll show you what went on behind those closed doors."

A rosy pink blush coloured Malandra's cheeks and her sly smile returned.

**A/N:**Do you like these little 'coming up' notices or would you rather I left you in total suspense?


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